


Permission

by TristinL



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3868831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristinL/pseuds/TristinL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a belief that, when you die, you can challenge Death to a game of chess for your soul.  This is, of course, false - no matter how much we may wish otherwise.  They do make a fantastic coffee cake, though - and their tea is to die for.<br/>
</p>
<p>"Hey, isn't this supposed to be about me?"<br/>
</p>
<p>Hush, Wade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permission

The room isn’t dark. This room is never truly dark. It’s never loud, never bright, never too hot nor too cold. It is (to quote a lost little girl with golden tresses) just right. Always.  
Upon entering the room, you are greeted by a Voice. The Voice comes through smiling lips curled under smiling eyes.  
It sends tendrils of lavender and white meandering about the room. The Entity attached to the Voice smiles in the way  
older siblings smile at younger siblings while holding them for the first time; in the way old married folks smile at their  
spouses when they aren’t looking; in the way you’re smiling, right now. The smile sits you down by the table, and the  
smile offers you tea, and the Voice offers you comfort, and the room is not too bright, and not too dark, and you,  
invariably, drink. It’s jasmine tea, with a touch of ginger – lemon and honey to taste. It’s the sort of tea that’s made  
for drinking at the end of a very, very long day.  
Now, it is a fact about Wade Wilson that he has never been in this room, has never been offered tea-  


“Excuse you, I have been offered tea.”  


He has never been offered _that_ tea. He doesn’t know if he wants the chance. He may  
love that smile, all their smiles, but that is just because he is in love with the one smiling.  


“I really don’t think it’s fair to tell me that I’m in love-“  


How could he not be? They were the only truly real thing in all his-  


“Oh, _her._ Look, she’s neat and all but–“  


_**The only real thing in all his universes-**_  


“STOP, damnit! I won't love her.”  


It’s not _her_ , it’s them, and will you knock it off? I’m trying to write.  


“In Marvel, it’s her, and no. I’m tired of fucking love stories.”  


Look, I’m just writing what I observe here, and what I see is you falling head-over-heels for-  


“Oh, yeah, the great observer- it’s not like you’ve got a pony in the race.  
You’re just objectively showing people what’s happening.”  


That’s what observation is, Wade-  


“Bullshit. You want a love story, so you’re going to write a ~love story~ Ooooh look, I can make  
~tilde things happen~ by talking in ~this voice~“  


Yes, Wade, that’s very cute. Now, can I please-  


“No, you can’t. You making up a fucking love story just because you want someone to be ~in love~ with Death because  
you think it’s ~poetic~ or some fucking shit is not cool, man. It’s my emotions you’re playing with, here.”  


Look, Wade, it’s not personal, ok? I mean, yeah, it is. You’re the only character I can use to do this. I could make some facsimile, if you’d rather. Create my own immortal character with the power to break the fourth wall – but then they’d immediately call me out for plagiarizing you, which would of course pull you into the fucking story anyway - so, no, I can only use you for this. But other than that, it’s not personal. I’m using you for this story because your existence is the only one that can be used to make this pull toward Death really work.  


“Again, bullshit. There are other immortal characters. Pick Jack Harkness, pick Merlin, pick fucking Wolverine – it’s his  
healing power I’m jacking anyway!”  


It’s not just about being immortal, you jackass. It’s about Death being the only entity that remains real. Death is a constant in any universe. And no, he/she/it/they/ze/DEATH does not always exist as a person. Death may not have a characterization in my universe, for example, but if you are real, and the universes you live in are real, then Death exists, at least as an incorporeal idea, in ALL of them - and that is phenomenal.  


“Ok, so I’m in love with the only constant in my life, fine. That does make sense, and could work, except I _can’t fucking die_  
so we can’t be together. In the end it’s still a tragic love story and I’ve had ENOUGH of those in fiction thank-you-very-  
fucking-much. Ooh if-I-string-my-words-together-in-staccato-bursts-it-does-this that’s neat!”  


Yes, very nice Wade.  
And yes, you’re in love with the only constant, but it’s not just that either. Did you miss the part where Death exists as a multitude? Because that makes Death not just a constant, but an ever-changing constant in your life. Death is a concrete fact about whom nothing is concrete. DEATH is a tall-rumored-skeleton that TALKS IN ALL CAPS. Sometimes He rides a motorcycle.  


“OK, no, I’m not allowed to jump into Discworld – that’s not Marvel”  


Like that’s going to stop fic writers?  


“…Touché. You know, so much of my existence is fanfic, and quite a bit of that is nice, but some of that goes in the DO  
NOT TOUCH pile and I’d appreciate it if you could be circumspect here.”  


Fine. Back to the point - Death is a short-skirted-sassy-mouthed girl in knee-highs and a tattered leather jacket who only wears black. Death is a flirtatious androgynous sweetheart with a garden in zir backyard.  


“Ooh, I haven’t heard of that one!”  


Yeah, I sort of pulled from canonical Hades and from a YA book I’d read about Famine (of all folks) to make that one piecemeal, alright? Anyway. Death is a somber elderly God with n connection to living things. Death is a high-cheekboned sardonic man who drives a white Cadillac.  


“Oh, _him_ I’d love to meet. He’s fine.”  


Right.  
Death is fickle, Death has rules; Death is final, Death is negotiable – Death IS, and that is the only truth Death has across iterations. So, yes, you’re immortal and you won’t ever get to experience death – but you can meet HIM. You can meet her. You can flirt with zir. You can sit on the edge of the River Styx and bribe Charon to let you meet Thanatos.  


“Aw, he’s such a drag. Charon, though – Charon I like.”  


It begs the question: are you in love with Death (the character) or Death (The concept)? Are you in love with the personality, the packaging, the characterization? Or are you in love with the soul of the entity? Are you pulled because you’ll never truly know Death in the way that all other (with some exceptions) living things get to, or are you pulled because you get to know the multitudinous facets of Death in a way that no one else ever will?  


“OK, yeah, that’s…intriguing.”  


Damn straight it is! What does it mean about you if you’re interested in Death? What does it mean about your relationship if you’re only sexually interested in some of their faces? What does it mean about your relationship if you can’t stand some characterizations – are you attracted to them regardless? If a soul (a being, an entity) is the same, then does love pull you to the soul or to how that soul is expressed? We can use Death to ask ourselves not if there are reincarnated lives, but if there is anything about a reincarnated self that we can ever claim. We can use your relationship with the entity that is Death to ask ourselves if it would matter to others that our soul - but not our self – lived on.  


“I get that it’s a cool concept, but still – it’s my heart you’re toying with, here. I’m going to need a bit more than “It’s  
interesting” to let you off the hook.”  


Fine. Aside from all of that – and God knows all of that is interesting – I just wanted (and this is personal, ok?)  


“OK. I mean, it’s not like this whole concept is completely personal with me on a level you and I haven’t reached yet,  
so I can see why you might be hesitant to get personal about _you-_ “  


…Fair point. I just wanted a chance to personify Death in a way that I could approach, and care about, and maybe not _fear_ so very much. The inevitability of DEATH could only be softened for me with thoughts of lavender-white light and floral tea and the sort of smile I got on my face when my little brothers fell asleep against my shoulders. I needed a chance to take this giant, terrifying incorporeal thing and package it in a way that let me feel like I could ever do anything that mattered. I needed a room that wasn’t too bright, or too loud, but wasn’t shrouded in the dark silence of Elysium.  


“And I get that, but-“  


And mostly? Mostly I needed a way to take this character I’d created and pretend they were real. See, I don’t have faith, not really. I’m pretty sure that when I die, that’s going to be it for...well, for everything that makes up me in any discernible way. But maybe, if I can write _you_ falling in love with Death – and so in love that every iteration pulls you in because they are, at their core, same – maybe then I can pretend for a little while that the concept that is Death in my world is the same as the Character I call Death in yours. You’re super power is breaking the fourth wall, right? I guess I figured if anybody could bridge that gap for me, if just for a second, it would be you.  


“Oh. Wow. I don’t…really…know how to _make the words seem_ like I’m ~trying~ to **give you** a hug? You really need  
one right now, don’t you? Well, just…ok, this is me, hugging you, with my words, right? So – if you’re not writing  
me ~unattainably longing~ after a specific _Her_ – and if it really means this much to you – I guess that’s ok. *Deep  
breath* You have my permission.”  
“…This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”  


Yeah. I am sorry about that.  


“It’s cool. Just, so I know going in.”  


Thank you, Wade.  


“Anytime.”  


…This entity is the only real thing in all his universes. He may never enter that room, but he has  
brushed up against that entity in dark alleys, when the smile was not quite so soft, when the Voice was tinged with  
crimson. He has been offered a slice of pie by a sardonic smirk with the quiet assertion that it was the best in the  
southern hemisphere. And he has fallen, slowly, steadily, and irrevocably, in love with the _soul_ of Death.  


“I am so screwed.”


End file.
